How Not To Get Into Actors' Equity
by alwaysflying
Summary: An OffBroadway show is casting. Manhattan's newest arrivals are actors, and need a place to start. AU.


**Notes: This is an AU. The bohemians are all actors – and no, it's not that different, because they still have their other artistic passions, they're just looking for money and have had different childhood experiences to have made them choose this path. **

**  
Disclaimer: Jonathan's. Also, this is one of those stories I write where the plot is based on another source. This one is _A Chorus Line_, which I (regrettably) do not own.**

---

"Please form a line," comes a booming voice.

The eighteen leotard-clad men and women quickly drop their belongings on the ground and get into a line, already used to this kind of thing. It's an audition, nothing major, nothing differentfrom all the other ones. This one has an antisocial director who has apparently decided to hang out in the wings or something. Well, that's not unusual.

Then the lights flicker on, and a man is sitting in the fifth row of the audience, his legs kicked up on the seat in front of him. "Good morning," he says, tilting his clipboard toward them, reminding them that there's nothing personal about this greeting; it's entirely professional. "I'm Benny Coffin. I'll be one of the two directors of this show."

In their line, facing the audience, shoulder-to-shoulder, the actors and actresses all nod or emit some form of assent.

"Now," Benny continues, "I'm going to break you up into groups. "I want the first nine of you to stay onstage, and the other nine to go down into the basement, where our other director is waiting for you. Half of you will audition for me, the other half for him. Got that?"

Immediately the stage is absorbed in movement as the actors bustle around, trying to figure out which group they are in. After far too long (five minutes? ten?), nine actors remain, their daunting shadows lit up on the floor behind them.

Benny nods in approval. "Excellent. So, what we're going to do now is, we're going to go down the line. Each of you will tell me your name, your age, your predominant form of entertainment – acting, dancing, or singing – and where you're from. Okay? Let's start with you." He points at a young, slim blond woman on the far end of the line.

Biting her lip, the woman takes a single step forward. "I'm… I'm Alison Gray," she says, trying to project her voice. "I'm twenty-seven, I'm from California, and I'm an actress, mostly." She then takes two swift steps backward, out of the spotlight, far from Benny as he scribbles notes on his clipboard.

"Very good," says Benny, more to himself than anyone else. "Next?"

A redheaded woman – she's more of a girl, really – steps forward and begins making circles on the ground with her foot. "I'm April," she says quietly, but it echoes. "April Ericsson, that's E-R-I-C-S-S-O-N. And I'm twenty-two, and I'm a singer."

"And where are you from?" Benny asks sharply.

With a cute little smile, she assures him, "Nowhere you'd've heard of."

With that, she takes a step back into the line, still grinning. Benny waves a hand toward the next person in line, another girl, this one a small dark-skinned woman. "Yes?" Benny calls to her, snapping his fingers audibly.

"Oh! Sorry," she apologizes quickly, taking three steps toward the edge of the stage. "I'm Joanne, Joanne Jefferson. I'm twenty-five, a singer. And I'm from upstate, by Syracuse."

Benny nods in approval. "I have friends from there," he muses. "That's fine. Back in line, please," he says, and beckons to the next person, a tiny young girl, no more than twenty, with long dark hair covering her face.

The girl steps forward. "Benny," she hisses. "I _have _to talk to you."

"Mimi?" he asks in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

She waves a hand. "Not important. But, listen, it's urgent, and I – "

"Back in line," he interrupts abruptly. With a huff, the girl tries to capture his attention once more, but Benny points to the boy – man? – standing beside the empty space where Mimi was standing before. "You. Go on."

Hissing, Mimi steps back in line as the person next to her steps forward, placing a hand on Mimi's shoulder to comfort her. "I'm Angel Schunard," the boy says, standing in an almost feminine manner. "I'm twenty-two, and I'm mainly a drummer, actually, but I can sing."

"He can sing _really well_," Mimi interjects.

Benny ignores her. Angel, sighing, continues, "And I'm from the city, I've lived here all my life." Unseen to Benny, Mimi's hand shoots out from her pocket and taps Angel on the shoulder. Angel catches Mimi's wrist with her own hand, but does not acknowledge this in any other way.

"But – " Mimi whispers.

Angel ignores her.

"Next," Benny calls lazily. Angel takes a step back in the line, and is replaced by a young woman with what Benny immediately recognizes as a perfect figure.

She stands with her weight all on one leg, the other knee bent, with a hand on her hip. Her caramel-colored curls cascade down her back, and Benny catches sight of something else noteworthy located in the neckline of her leotard. "I'm Maureen," she announces, her voice obviously that of an actress. "I'm twenty-three. I act, sing, dance, whatever. And I'm from Hicksville."

"The town, or the stereotype?" Benny asks, amused.

Maureen grins. "The town, actually, though it fits the stereotype well enough."

"I imagine it does," Benny replies. "You'll be one to watch. What did you say your name was?"

Smiling charmingly, she repeats, "Maureen. Maureen Johnson."

Benny scrawls something on his clipboard, nods, and calls, "Next."

The next person to step out of line is a tall black man who has apparently chosen to defy the rules of the audition and wear pants and an open-buttoned shirt. "I'm Collins, Tom Collins," he booms. "Twenty-seven. I've had twelve years of forced dance lessons, so I guess you could say I'm a dancer. And I'm from Massachusetts."

"Forced?" Benny echoes.

Collins shrugs. "Forced in the sense that I didn't want to go," he elaborates. "But, you know. You take what you get. I can dance – obviously, after twelve years; if I couldn't there'd be something wrong with me – so I dance. It's easy enough."

Benny nods. "I get that," he says, still nodding. "That makes sense. Yeah. Okay. Next."

Another young man steps out of line, his jagged blond haircut and sharp green eyes immediately catching Benny's eye. "I'm Roger Davis," he mumbles, speaking as though he'd rather be doing anything but this. "I'm, uh, I'm twenty-four, and I'm a singer. I was born in California, same as that blond chick."

"Alison," "that blond chick" supplies.

Roger smirks. "Whatever."

Writing frantically, Benny does not even look up when he says, "Next."

The last person on line steps out tentatively. "Hi," he says quietly. "I'm Mark. Mark Cohen. I'm twenty-one, and, well, I'm not really an actor or singer or dancer or anything like that, but I need a job, and I guess I'm okay at acting." He stares straight ahead, not making eye contact with Benny, and finally blurts out, "I was born in Westchester."

"So was I," Benny says sharply. "Where?"

"Scarsdale," Mark replies.

Benny nods. "I've been there."

Mark sighs in relief. "Then you know why I'm so eager to live and work in the city?"

"Yeah," Benny responds absently. "Okay." He gets to his feet as Mark steps back into the line, then crosses to the aisle between rows of seats and finally makes his way onto the stage. "Here is what we're going to do. You guys are half of the people auditioning. However, that is because we are putting on two performances – one for on-site, the other for the tour. What that means is that those of you that I cast will be working with _each other_, and not the other actors. This will be the only audition, and you will be cast or _not _cast before you leave today. Are there any questions?"

Maureen steps forward. "Yeah, um, are we the tour or the New York performance?"

Bluntly, Benny replies, "That depends on how good you are."

Nodding, Maureen takes a step back into the line.

"Anything else?"

"How many?" Joanne asks sharply. "How many of us do you need?"

"Two and two," Benny answers. "Two boys, two girls. How many of you are there…? Right, nine," he answers himself. "So, five of you won't be cast. That's all. That's not that big a number, is it?"

"It's more than half," Mark volunteers quietly.

Everyone turns to face him. Blushing, Mark stares at his feet. "Never mind," he mumbles.

Benny emits a long sigh, then claps his hands together. "Okay! Well, look. I have all your résumés, correct?" After the nods and mumbles of assent have been delivered, he continues, "So, I know how you can act and sing and dance and all that. What I want to know is, can you work together? I want to hear your stories. I want to know how you grew up, what you're like, why you're in the business, and all that. I want to see who you are when you're _not _acting."

Confusion is the general response of the actors, who have obviously been making themselves look flawless – onstage, in the mirror, in their costumes – for so long that the thought of being genuinely _honest _astounds them.

"So. You're going to line up. You're going to tell me who you are, who you've been, and all that. I'm sitting in the audience, or I will be, and I want to see what you've got for me. Everyone clear?"

The truth is "no," but they answer "yes" anyway.

"Great." Benny bounds back to his seat in the audience. "This isn't going to be in order," he warns. "I'll call you out at random. Let's start with…" He scans his paper. "Start with you – Joanne."

"Please, no!" she exclaims.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't make me first," she begs. "Someone else. Please."

Benny pauses, looking her over. At last, he nods, writes something on his clipboard, and turns away, scanning the rest of the line. "You." He points at Collins. "Go ahead."

"Where should I start?" Collins asks, gesturing with his hands to indicate the wide variety of topics he could discuss.

Benny hums. "Let's see. How about… how did you get into dancing? That's what you said, right? You're a dancer?"

"I can dance," Collins corrects him. "I'm not _a dancer_. If my parents didn't have unfulfilled dreams of the glamour of dance, you can rest assured I'd be a teacher right now."

Nodding, Benny gestures for him to continue.

"Well… I was five," Collins says, sighing. "Mom, Dad, and my sister – with whom my mother was pregnant – were getting ready to go out somewhere. And… all of a sudden, Mom started throwing up. Dad went nuts, didn't know what to do. They had been looking forward to that thing they were going to – a ballet – for _months_. But Mom thought Dad should go, even though she couldn't. And with the extra ticket, since they knew James wouldn't be interested, Dad brought me along."

"Now," Collins continues, "what you have to understand is that five-year-olds don't have the best attention spans, and they tend to be pretty energetic. So in the car on the way there, I was bouncing around, not listening to Dad when he told me about the ballet. But when he said we were going to Boston, I was excited, 'cause I knew that the Red Sox played there. God, I loved the Red Sox. So I started freaking out, telling him it was the coolest thing ever. And he thought that was a little weird."

Benny chuckles. "It was," he promises Collins.

"Yeah, well, whatever. Dad called Mom from the theater to tell her we were there, and I guess he mentioned my interest in dance, as he viewed it, and Mom was really excited. She'd wanted to be a dancer since she was, like, ten, and according to my brother, the only reason Mom and Dad had kids was so that they could raise a dancer. So, from that day on, I was enrolled in dance lessons. It was never my favorite thing in the world, but it was _easy_.

"After twelve years of lessons – from age five to seventeen – I was an _expert_. Julliard wanted me. NYU wanted me. And that's when I started hating dancing, because when I never wanted to do it, you know? I took what I got, but if I had my way, I'd be a teacher. Still, I was an expert at it."

He pauses, exhaling deeply. "At eighteen, I left home, because I knew going to Julliard like Mom and Dad wanted would just about _kill _me. So I moved to the city, and I wanted to get a good job. Instead, I got stuck dancing, because that was all I knew how to do." He crosses his arms over his chest. "And, now I'm here. Believe me, I can dance."

"I believe you," Benny assures him, but closes his mouth as Collins demonstrates his talent by dropping into a split. "I didn't even know men could do that," Benny remarks, staring at Collins.

"Most can't," Collins drawls.

"I see." Benny nods, still watching Collins, writing on his clipboard without watching the pen skid across the paper. When Collins rises back to his feet, Benny nods. "Interesting," he says at last.

Collins takes a step back into the line, suddenly anonymous again.

"Next," Benny says, reviewing his paper. "Okay. Let's have… Alison, please."

The girl on the far end of the line steps forward, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Okay," she says cautiously. "What do you want to know?"

"Just let yourself go," Benny answers. "You're an actress. Why? How?"

Alison shifts her weight from foot to foot, thinking. "Well," she begins, "I grew up in a family of people involved in entertainment and the media. My aunt was a news anchor, my uncle a movie director, my cousin a famous actor. My mother had her own television show, on which she was the star. My father… well, he was more interested in real estate. But he was the only one. Everyone else was all about glamour and stardom."

"So," she continues, "my family insisted that I be enrolled in acting classes from the time I was twelve. I _wanted _to be an actress, you see. Not like him," she adds, pointing to Collins. "I wanted to act. I loved the glamour, the perfection. Everything. It was what I dreamed I could achieve.

"Well, on my first day in acting class, the teacher came out, and he said we were going to learn how to believe in our acting. I was pretty shocked, because it was _acting_. Nobody was supposed to _believe _it. But he said, no, we had to believe in our roles. So he lined us up on the stage, and he told us to do some improv. The thing was, though, that we couldn't _talk_. Pantomime only." She winces at the memory.

"He handed out cards to us saying what our character's relationship was with _one other person_. And there were no _pairs_. Like, if mine said my character was Jane's sister, Jane wouldn't get a card saying that she was my sister, it would say what her relationship was with someone else. And by walking around, we were supposed to just figure it out by the way people interacted with us."

"Sounds retarded," Maureen volunteers.

"It was," Alison shoots back. "Everyone was screaming, 'cause they were all excited when they figured it out. Me? I didn't give a _shit_. I wanted to be an actress, but I didn't want to pretend I was acting when I was really just mouthing words at people. 'Cause that's what we were all doing, secretly. And when I tried to do it the _real _way, they would laugh at me, saying I was just making it harder for myself. _The teacher said that_."

"The next day, I told Mom how bad the class was. But she told me it'd get better. _It didn't_. So what did I do? I quit. A month into the class, I quit, and Mom decided maybe I was too _good _for the class. That's what she figured – I don't know how, I guess she thought acting was genetic or something. And… well, she sent me on an audition."

"And?" Benny asks, unable to keep his eyes off of her for some reason.

Alison cracks a smile. "I got the lead role."

"I know you did," Benny replies, and writes something on his clipboard. After a long minute, he looks up again. "Joanne, would you like to try this again?"

Blushing, Joanne takes several steps forward. "I grew up in a bad neighborhood," she begins. "A really bad one. My parents were lawyers and were filthy rich, but they died when I was three, and I got put into a foster home in Syracuse. The problem was, it was right in the middle of the city – Syracuse is a city, you know – and it was pretty gross, the neighborhood we were in."

She hesitates. "See, we didn't have a lot of money. My parents – the foster parents – had eleven other foster kids, and keeping us together was difficult. We would all generally have maybe two outfits, and we'd mix-and-match by cutting up our clothes every school year and making them look new. We were pretty damn 'street' for a bunch of kids that were born to wealthy parents. And we used to get into fights a lot," she adds. "We got pretty roughed up, but we always had each other's backs. It was great."

"Well, I guess you really want to know how I got into singing. It was pretty simple, really. Our school was shitty and had _zero _extracurriculars, but one day this theater company came to our school. They were, supposedly, 'Bringing Theater To Kids.' And we were in middle school, then – well, I was, and so were most of my sisters and brothers. And we didn't really pay any attention to this program. But one day, when we were walking through the hallways, my brother suddenly started singing. Just quietly, to himself. And I joined in.

"As it turns out, one of the guys in the theater program heard us, and was amazed. He told us to audition – practically forced us to, actually. So Darren and I went to the audition, and… we were cast. Him as a supporting role, me as the lead. The play was… god, I don't even remember. I just remember actually liking the attention for once. Dar and I had the time of our lives there. And… that's how I got into acting."

Benny smiles. "Good," he says, but does not elaborate. "Now… you. Angel."

"It was an accident," Angel replies immediately. "Getting into theater. I'm not in it, really. I saw the flyer and thought I'd check it out. I know I can sing. I mean… I guess."

"Then tell me about your childhood."

Angel frowns. "You don't want to hear about that. _They _don't want to hear about that." He gestures emptily at his fellow actors and actresses.

"I do, actually," Benny disagrees. "Tell me, please."

Angel stares at the floor of the stage. "Fine," he mutters. "My parents took me into the city when I was nine," he says in a wavering voice with forced calm, "and I… I got lost. And… and these two guys found me. Roy and Evan. And they took me to this building – they said I could stay with them, and I was scared because they were strangers, but the streets were even scarier. So they brought me back with them, and there was a room with a tiny bed. It creaked. They said that would be my new room, and every so often I'd have a roommate."

His eyes flashing, Angel drops his arms to his sides. "They… they told me a little bit about the mechanics. It was sex. I was nine. I didn't _get _it before then, but they taught me about it and told me that I'd have to do that with different people. I was scared. They said it would hurt, but I'd be making money, and soon I'd be able to live somewhere else.

"Well, they were taking five-sixths of my earnings from me, leaving me with only a sixth. By the time I was sixteen, I had only made thirty dollars. And… well, I couldn't take it anymore, by that point, and I left. Ran away, with all the money I had. But I needed a job, so… so I saw a gay club. I didn't know what it was then, but I went inside and said I was twenty-one and needed work. Of course they didn't believe me, but they didn't care. They said I could dance in their club, but… I was too little to dance as a _guy_. They put me in drag."

Now visibly trembling, Angel reaches his arm behind him and holds Mimi's hand. "Well… after three years of that, I decided I didn't have any dignity, and I needed to do something with my life. I… I couldn't. I got a job on the street, drumming. It wasn't really a job, just something I _did_. And I slept in alleys, mostly. But then, I met Mi – a friend. And she took me in after seeing me bitch this guy out for calling me a faggot. That was… what, a year ago? Something like that. And… now, I'm here."

"Do you need a tissue, or – "

"Do I _look _like I'm crying?" Angel demands. "No. I'm not afraid of my past, if that's what you were wondering."

Benny holds his breath for a long moment, deliberating. At last, he nods. Angel steps back into the line, satisfied.

"Next. April."

The redhead steps forward, sweeping her hair behind her ears. "All right," she says, trailing off. "Well, I'm a singer. But there isn't really a lot of room for a singer in New York City, you know? Especially one who doesn't want to sell out and get a record deal. See, what I want is to have this bohemian kind of life. I want to _want _things. I know I'm more than decent at singing, and if I got a record deal, I'd probably end up famous within the year. But that's not what I want, you know? Because I don't want to have a perfect life. I want to have goals. If everything's perfect, life gets old really fast."

"Perfect," Benny says immediately. "Perfect. Excellent. I love that. So, you're acting because…"

"Because there's room for improvement," she answers quickly. "I hate feeling like I'm the best at something, because it makes me stand out. I just want to blend in, you know? I don't want to be anything special."

"If that's the case, why do you sing?" Roger interrupts, jumping out of his place in the line. "Singing is _about _standing out."

April allows a clump of her hair to fall into her eyes as she answers, "I sing because I couldn't dream of letting anyone else butcher my lyrics, and I couldn't stop myself from writing them, no matter how hard I tried."

Roger nods, apparently satisfied.

"Thank you, April," Benny says. "Now, let's take a five-minute break, shall we?"

"Can we go outside?" Maureen asks quickly.

Benny laughs. "The room to the left has a bar," he tells them all. "You can smoke in there."

With that, the actors and actresses flow out of the room.

"Mimi."

"Yes?" she asks, spinning around.

"What is it that you want?" Benny asks, reclining in his chair.

"I want a _job_," she hisses, stepping forward. She stops at the edge of the stage, then turns right back around and begins pacing once again. "I want you to _hire _me."

Benny closes his eyes for a long moment. "Mimi, we're over. We've _been _over for a long time now. I don't see why – why are you _here_?"

"I moved here," she declares proudly. "I moved here a _year_ ago. Where've _you _been?" But she interrupts herself. "Benny," she says impatiently. I know we're over. I'm not looking for _that _again. You know as well as I do that we were only fucking so I could pass enough classes to not fail. That's the only thing that could ever make me fuck my drama teacher. But look. I'm nineteen years old, I'm a dancer, and I need work."

He shakes his head. "Dancing isn't really the key point of the show," he tells her weakly.

"Shut up," she tells him, cracking a smile. "I don't care. I can act. I'll do _anything_. I need a job."

"Mimi, you're young. You could get work at a fucking _club_, if you wanted to. You're an _amazing _dancer." He sighs. "And besides, you have all these years ahead of you where you'll be working your ass off. Don't you want a little more time of relaxation?"

"I have HIV. Did you know that?" she blurts out. "I don't have _all these years _ahead of me. I have three, four, maybe five. I want to _dance_. It's my favorite thing in the _world_, Benny, _please_. You don't understand what it means to me – "

"Don't say _that_," he interrupts. "I know full well what passion is like." He glares at her bitterly. "I don't know if _you_ do."

"Benny, do you really want to know what my life is like?" Mimi demands.

"No," he drawls sarcastically, "lie to me."

Mimi takes a seat on the edge of the stage, her legs dangling off the side. "I know you're mad that I left," she says softly, "but I was too young for a relationship. Fifteen-year-olds can't go around fucking their teachers. I'm _sorry _I did it, to be honest, and I know you are too, but it would never have worked. It was just… sex. You know that?" At Benny's reluctant nod, she continues, "And, well, I just want to dance, now. I'm not going for the sex or the wild parties or anything like that. This is probably going to be one of my last chances to dance, to _express _myself. Does that mean _anything _to you?"

"You're too good for this show," Benny counters swiftly.

"I don't _care_! I can dance down. _Please_," she begs.

There is a long silence.

The door swings in, and Maureen grabs her purse from the floor and disappears through the door again.

"Okay," Benny says at last. "Fine. I'll give you a chance. But I might not cast you."

"That's all I ask," she replies eagerly, and bounds toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Benny asks sharply.

Mimi laughs. "To smoke, of course."

"You _smoke_?"

"Time doesn't stand still when you're off doing your own thing, you know, Benjamin," she tells him.

Still skeptical, Benny sighs. "Don't go," he tells her. "Break's over. Get everyone back in here, please."

Mimi does that. Within moments, the room is filled once again with actors and actresses in leotards and antsy moods. "Do we find out who's in and who's out now?" Maureen blurts out.

Benny rolls his eyes. "You haven't even given me your story yet," he points out. "Go ahead, Johnson. Shoot."

Maureen flashes him a smile, and saunters forward, toward the edge of the stage. In her eyes for a moment, Benny sees Mimi, standing proudly, the same way Maureen is now. The vision is gone as quickly as it came, and he clears his head with thoughts of the show, of the costumes and script and lyrics and tour bus.

"Well," Maureen says, still smiling, "I am an actress, as you can probably tell. I sing _amazingly _– " here she demonstrates by singing said word " – and it's fuckin' hard not to cast me, as you can see." She runs her hands down her sides, indicating her figure, and then raises a single finger to brush across her cheek. "But it wasn't always that way."

"You mean, you had…"

"Plastic surgery," she fills in for him. "Yeah. See, I grew up… well, I'm not going to tell you how I looked growing up. It wasn't pretty, I'll tell you that much. And when I moved here, I desperately needed a job. But no one would cast me the way I looked. So, I decided to improvise. I sent my parents a letter saying I broke my leg dancing and needed money for the operation. With the enclosed money, I bought myself… you don't need to know the details, but I bought myself every role I've ever had from then to now. Assuming, of course," she adds, trailing a hand down her leg, "that you _do _cast me. And how could you not?"

"Cocky, aren't you?" Benny asks playfully.

"Oh, very," she laughs. "Because I know how I look, and I'm proud of it. Is that so wrong?"

Benny grins. "No, I guess not. Okay. Next! Roger."

Roger slowly takes a few steps forward. "Maureen dragged me here," he said quickly. "It wasn't my choice. If it was up to me, I'd be at home, playing my Fender. But _no_." He rolls his eyes. "Okay. So, I'm Roger Davis, and I don't even have a fucking Fender. According to Maureen, if I get a job that'll change, and I'll be able to afford a guitar. I'm just holding out for that. So that's why I'm here."

"How did you get into singing?" Benny inquires.

"I don't know," Roger replies. "I've just _done _it, for as long as I can remember. It comes naturally to me. Look, I'm a _good _singer, okay? I'm fucking fantastic."

"He really is," Maureen interjects.

Benny sighs. "I don't care about that right now," he says patiently. "I want to hear about your past."

"I've forgotten most of it," Roger snaps.

"And what about what you remember?"

With a grimace, Roger shrugs. "That much, I try to block out."

Solemnly, Benny nods, and writes something on his clipboard. "Okay. All right. Fine. Last one, right? Mark."

Mark steps forward, twisting his fingers around each other awkwardly. "Okay. Uh… I'm not really sure what you want me to say," he says quietly. "I'm just some guy, really. I come from a middle-class suburban Jewish family. My parents wanted me to go into business. I refused and moved to the city, where I was told by some liar that the easiest way to make money was to act. But – "

"Okay," Benny interrupts. "Don't tell me about how you got into the business, then. Tell me about your childhood."

"A childhood secret? I have plenty of those," Mark retorts, but adds, "Good luck getting them out of me."

"Do you want the job?"

Mark shrugs.

There is a moment of silence.

At last, the words begin to tumble from Mark's mouth, almost like word vomit. "I was molested by my uncle at fourteen, found out he was my uncle at sixteen, and left home a year later. And I've never told anyone this, not ever," he adds, blushing, "but I think that might've made me gay."

Benny whistles. "Great," he drawls. "Okay. Look, you guys can just… well, improv, I guess." He turns to Alison, winks, and says, "Don't worry, it's decent improv this time." To everyone else, he explains, "Just… improv for me. You're dancers, actors, singers, whatever, and today is the last day that you can ever dance, act or sing again. After today, it's straight back to Mom and Dad's. While you do that, I'll watch, but I'll also be choosing who's going to the show, so stay focused. Ready? Go."

With a snap of Benny's fingers, the stage is once again alight with the bustle of actors and actresses moving back and forth. They arrange their blocking, get to their positions, and then, with everyone in the correct place, the scene begins.

Maureen starts, unsurprisingly. She says, in a hollow voice resounding off the walls of the room, "So, this is the end."

Alison, leaning against a wall, echoes, "The end."

Benny looks up from his clipboard and elaborates, "Could you try and tell me what you would _do _if you found out that this were the end of your career?"

"The truth?" Roger asks sharply. "The truth, or acting?"

"The truth," Maureen tells him. "Duh."

"Then how is it improv?" Roger demands.

Benny sighs. "Is it _really _your last day singing, Davis?"

"Am I _really _going to kill myself?" Roger shoots back. "If all I'm going to do is tell you about it, it's a hypothetical, not improvisation."

"You'd kill yourself if you could never sing again?"

There is a long silence.

Then, Roger's certainty becomes evident.

"I'd kill myself."

Benny scribbles something down on the clipboard. "Well said. Anyone else?"

"I… I'm not really _in _this profession," Mark stammers.

With a shrug, Benny says, "Then whatever your passion _is_. What would you do if you could never… what's your passion?"

Mark blushes. "I like photography…"

"There you go, then. If you could never take another picture again, see another camera again for the rest of your life, what would you do?"

After a long pause, Mark sighs. "Come back to me," he pleads. "Ask me after some more people."

"Okay," Benny replies without hesitation. "Joanne, how about you?"

Joanne sighs. "I'd be lost."

"But what would you _do_?"

She shrugs. "Try to make enough money for law school," she replies swiftly. "I've been working on _that _all my life."

"And if you couldn't?"

With a crooked smile, she points out, "They're making these fake degrees now. I could buy one and be a lawyer anyway."

"And you'd be happy?"

She hesitates. "I'd be happy," she says after a pause. "Yeah. I would."

Benny nods, satisfied. "Collins?"

"Same as Joanne. I'd try to get money for college, go into teaching if I could."

"April?"

She flutters her eyelashes at him. "You could stop me from singing, but you couldn't stop me from writing," she proclaims. "Never."

"But if – "

"But if you could?" she interrupts. "Well, then I guess I'd kill myself."

Benny sighs. "So morbid. Okay. Alison?"

"I'd give up," she says immediately. "I'd do nothing, I guess. Live with Daddy – I wouldn't need a job then. I'd get married, have some kids. Be a mom."

"Fucking scum," Roger snarls.

Unfazed, Alison asks, "Would you like some happy pills, Roger?"

"Not if they've touched _your _hands," he retorts. "Sellout. You don't have any passion, do you? Acting, singing, dancing – that's about passion. Why do it otherwise?"

"I _am _passionate!" she exclaims. "Of course I am! I just have _priorities_. I would _never _kill myself over something like that. I value acting, but I also value my life."

"Sellout," he repeats.

She shakes her head. "You're wrong. You're living on this _I'm so valuable _bullshit. You think your music's changing the world? Suck it up, Davis. You're not doing a thing. It's a little fantasy of yours, and – "

"Shut _up_!" Roger screams.

Benny tsks. "Guys, c'mon. Stop."

"She's saying – "

"He's – "

From the corner comes Angel's voice. "I wouldn't kill myself," he remarks mildly. "I _live_."

Roger frowns. There isn't an easy way to refute something coming from _Angel_. He's just so… calm, and passionate; Roger's willing to accept that, at least.

"I'd go into something else. I mean, it's not my life. Drumming, acting, singing, dancing… none of that's _me_. I'm still me, without the drumsticks and pickle tub. And who I am… that's someone who's alive. Roger, are you saying that you're not you without your music?"

Still frowning, Roger tries to explain.

"I accept that you're passionate," Angel continues, "but, really, you're still _you_."

Roger sighs. "I guess…"

"You don't want to imagine a world without your music. I understand. Neither do I. But if that _were _the world you were living in, well, you'd really just go on with everything, would you?"

Quietly, Mimi looks up, staring out into the audience at Benny. "I would."

"I would," Mark echoes.

"I would," Joanne, Collins, Maureen and Alison chorus.

Roger glances down the line at April, glancing up at him.

"I would," April mumbles.

Roger groans, low in his throat. "I would."

"It's a gift," Angel says. "Our art, our passion. It's a gift. But if we can't keep it, we're not going to throw tantrums over it. Or we will, but we'll go on with life anyway, won't we? Yes. We will. We'll have our memories, we'll remember what caused our passion – love, mostly. But we won't _die_. We'll… move on, knowing what's in our past, knowing we've accomplished more than most people ever have. Most people never get this passionate about anything."

"True," Roger admits.

"We're special. Unique. Few people get what we have now. If it disappeared, all we'd be is thankful. And alive. We'd say goodbye to our past, moving on. No day but whatever day it is, really. It'll be in our past, and if we can use our imaginations, if we can act well enough within our own minds, it'll be our shadows. I think that's good enough, don't you?"

There is a long pause.

Finally, Benny rises from his chair. He crosses the stage, leaving everyone in his wake, and disappears behind the curtain.

The lights dim over the stage, then disappear.

At last, slow spotlights begin to appear over certain people on the line. Four lights appear, synchronized with the booming of Benny's magnified voice from the wings.

The first spotlight locks in place. "Angel Schunard."

The second. "Mimi Marquez."

The third. "Joanne Jefferson."

The fourth, the last, comes to a halt over… "Tom Collins."

"Roger, Mark, Maureen, April, and Alison. Thank you for your time, but I am sorry to say that you have not been cast. To the other four, thank you for your time as well. Please stay behind to receive your scripts and schedules. Thank you all for coming."

The spotlights disappear, the crushed and delighted individuals fading to nameless, faceless blackness.


End file.
